The Soldier Next Door
by dancer4ver
Summary: It's 1940 and France has surrendered to Germany. As German soldiers move into his town, Francis Bonnefoy only wishes to avoid them. He didn't expect to fall in love with one or be forced to choose between his new found happiness and doing what's right.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Soldier Next Door

Genre: Drama/Romance

Rating: M

Summary: It's 1940 and France has finally surrendered to Germany. As German soldiers move into his town, Francis Bonnefoy only wishes to avoid them. He didn't expect to fall in love with one or be forced to choose between his new found happiness or doing what's right.

Pairings: Prussia/France, blink and you'll miss it Austria/Hungary, past France/Belgium

**A/N:** This fic was inspired by the beautiful novel "The Soldier's Wife" by Margaret Leroy. I really love WWII centered media and I equally love writing during that era. Sorry if that sounds somewhat morbid. This started off as a one-shot but it got much too long so I'm anticipating two chapters, at most three. Enjoy!

**Extra Notes.: Monaco = Olympe. Also, the town of Imaldee is my own creation and not an actual place.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p><em>The Soldier Next Door<em>

His cousin knocked on his door two days before the soldiers arrived. Francis was in the middle of boxing up old photos and sketches that he planned to store in the attic. He wouldn't want to see them for awhile, these memories of his, but didn't have the heart to throw them away completely. So, instead, he tossed them haphazardly into worn boxes with the intent to push them as far away as possible. The second box was half-filled when there was a knock at his door. He set the pictures in his hand on the kitchen table and went to answer the door, half afraid that the soldiers had come early.

"We need to say goodbye to Imaldee," Olympe said when he opened the door.

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Are we going somewhere?" he asked.

"No. Yes. Get your bike."

"What? Why? And you didn't answer my question."

"Didn't you hear me?" Olympe said impatiently. "We're going to say goodbye."

"So we're running away?"

She gave him an exasperated look. "No, are you stupid? We're going for a ride through town."

Francis frowned. "But you said that we were saying 'goodbye'."

"We are. And this is how we're going to do it. Now get your bike."

Francis did as he was told, too accustomed to the strange ideas of his cousin to ask precisely what she meant. He closed the door to his house behind him, not bothering to lock it. Soon, he might have to but not today. Olympe waited patiently by the front gate while he retrieved his bike from the side of the house.

"Did you walk here?" he asked as he wheeled the bike over to her.

"Oliver gave me a ride," she said shortly.

Francis got on the bike and she took her place standing behind him, her small hands gripping his shoulders for balance and safety.

"Really? I think he likes you," Francis said as they started down the hill. The path that led away from his house was a curving downhill slope, lined on one side with houses and an old wooden fence on the other. It grew steeper as it neared the main road and there was no need to pedal until the end.

"Evette said he likes any girl who is nice to him. Perhaps I should stop asking him for favors?" Olympe said, a hint of worry in her voice.

"What's wrong with Oliver?" Francis asked amused.

"He's very plain and he bores me. He's always fiddling with some trinket or the other and he has the permanent aroma of gasoline." she said.

They were gaining speed now.

Francis chuckled. "But he's nice."

"That doesn't change the fact that he's dull. You said so yourself."

"Did I? Well it is true." He smiled to himself. His cousin was more like him than she knew, but he didn't tell her this because it would only make her angry.

"Watch out for The Dip," she said as they rounded a corner.

The Dip was a shallow depression in the path. If you were going too fast when you hit it you would be sent flying and be lucky to break only one bone.

Francis squeezed the brakes lightly and they sailed smoothly over The Dip.

The road at the end of zigzag path led to the main part of town. Here, the ground leveled out and Francis had to actually begin pedaling. They breezed into town minutes later. It was Tuesday afternoon and the traffic was light. It was light on every other day as well. Before the war, there had been over 700 people living in Imaldee. Now there was less than half. Those who hadn't fled when the war started left in the initial days following France's surrender. Some had relatives in neutral countries or knew people with connections, people with boats or people who knew people with boats and were fearful or desperate enough to say yes to the possibly perilous journey ahead. Francis's neighbors had left just the week before. They had friends who were going to ferry them across the English Channel. They had asked him to come with them. He had said no. There had been no guarantee that there would be space left. No guarantee that they wouldn't sink halfway across. No guarantee that they wouldn't be caught or blown to bits by a German submarine lurking in the depths of the dark water. Besides, he hated English food and could not imagine eating it until the end of war, which could be years away still. He had begged for his cousin to go but she had staunchly refused.

"Without me, you're useless," Olympe had said. "You'll only smoke, drink and engage in lewd activities."

"You act as if those are bad things," Francis had said, trying not to smile.

"You need me. I'm not leaving. Besides, I hate English weather," she had said.

So it was settled and they stayed, both wondering what consequences their decisions would have.

They biked by the school, the apothecary, and the bank. Next came the general store, the first of the only two diners in town and then the flower shop, which was closed now. They passed by Olympe's building. It had been left to her by her father. It had three small apartments, one that she lived in and the other two which she rented out. In one lived a typist. An accountant lived in the other. She didn't speak much to either of them. The accountant was gone now, among the first to leave. The typist had stayed and more or less isolated himself in his apartment. Across the street from the building was the bakery where Olympe worked. When she visited Francis, which was usually three or four times a week, she nearly always brought a pastry or sweet of some sorts; fluffy madeleines, éclairs coated with thick layers of chocolate, raspberry macarons with buttercream filling…Francis wondered how much longer that would last. With war, and now occupation, came rations and the sweets were always the first to go.

As they passed the clothing store, Francis caught a glimpse of the two of them in the newly washed windows; his handsome face—he never doubted that—violet-blue eyes that men and women both admired and envied, the slender nose and long dark blond hair tied neatly back with a red ribbon; the stubble on his chin that Olympe hated but he refused to shave. Behind him stood Olympe, ever lovely, her long braid flying behind her, her blue dress floating above her skinny ankles. She was perfectly poised on the back of the bike. No bump or jolt could unbalance her. He also noticed that neither of them was smiling.

Imaldee had two levels. The second was built on a low hill overlooking the first. When Olympe said neither yes or no, Francis turned onto the uphill slope, brow furrowed as he pedaled against the ever present pull of gravity, until they once more reached flat ground. The postmistress waved to them as they passed. In her arms was a box of letters. Some had good news. Most were better unopened.

When they biked past the church, Olympe tapped Francis on the shoulder.

"Do you think the Germans will let us go to church?" she asked. "I wonder if they even believe in God. You can't be a God-fearing people to invade another country like this."

"Does it matter? You don't even go to church," Francis said.

"I do too. I went with Evette's family."

"Two months ago."

"Well, when was the last time _you_ went to church?" she asked scornfully.

"Five years ago."

"Has it really been that long? Maybe we should turn around and go pray for your sinner's soul."

Francis laughed. "I would rather the Germans were here now than go to church."

Olympe gasped. "You're a heathen. I don't believe we're related."

"Luckily for you, we are."

They biked past the grand, beautifully painted homes that waited in vain for their owners to return.

"It's not fair," Olympe said as they passed Evette's house. It was bright blue with a white roof and white shutters. The upper right-hand window had been left open and pale curtains fluttered in the light breeze. It was empty. "They have no right to do this—to just come in here and ruin everything."

"Maybe they won't," Francis said softly, unconvincingly.

"Yes they will. I know it. And that is why we're saying goodbye now. This might be the last time Imaldee is truly 100% ours—untouched, untainted. Our priceless gem."

"I do love when you start getting romantic like that. It makes me want to kiss you," Francis said. In the past, Olympe would have snapped at him for being vulgar but now she was quiet so he knew that she was just as worried as he was.

"Goodbye post office, goodbye school yard, goodbye library…," Olympe said.

_Goodbye chocolate éclairs_, Francis thought.

"Goodbye…everything."

* * *

><p>The soldiers arrived two days later. Francis had just finished packing up the last of the pictures when he heard the sound of a car engine. There were only two families in Imaldee who owned cars and both had left weeks earlier. Slowly, Francis walked to the kitchen window and pulled aside the curtain. A black car was inching it's was around last curve—it only barely fit on the skinny path—and then came to a stop at his neighbor's abandoned house. The doors opened and out stepped four men; two blonds, a brunette with glasses that glinted in the evening sun and a man with hair so light that it almost looked white. One of the blonds had his hair combed back and carried himself with the air of authority as he stepped from the vehicle. He barked out an order in German that Francis—who was proficient in English but knew only a handful of German words—didn't understand at all. He assumed it was an order because after the man said it he walked inside the house and the other blond began to unload bags from the car. The brunette stood off to the side and did not move to help him. He waited patiently until the man was done and then followed him inside the house. The last one left outside was the man with the very light hair. He did not follow the others but instead ran up and down the length of the house, peeked into the side shed and walked in the front garden. Finally, apparently satisfied, he went inside. Francis let the drapery fall back in place. His heart was pounding in his chest. A few hours later, after he had calmed himself by chain-smoking Gauloises and drinking from his last bottle of wine, he heard the sound of someone running on the road followed by frantic knocking on his front door. He walked warily to the door, unsure whether to open it or go in the opposite direction.<p>

"Francis, open up! It's me! Let me in now!" It was Olympe.

Francis flung open the door and pulled her inside.

"They're here! They're here!" Olympe said quickly, trembling. Her eyes were wide behind her glasses and she hopped from foot to foot.

"I know," Francis said.

He led her to the kitchen table and poured what was left of the wine into a glass for her. She took it from him with shaking hands and drained it in seconds. Then, to his surprise, she snatched a cigarette from the half empty box and lit it.

"I thought you hated smoking. You always complain when I do it," Francis said.

Olympe took a deep drag and then broke into a fit of coughing. "Well today is an exception," she croaked.

"What happened?" Francis asked, sitting down besides her.

Olympe took another drag from the cigarette before answering rapidly, "The first ones arrived in cars and the rest came marching in after. It was actually pretty calm. Someone yelled something nasty at them but they ignored it. All their faces were so serious looking, it was almost inhuman. .." She sucked on the cigarette like it was candy. Francis had never seen her so wound up, so frightened. "So yes, when they were all here a group of them went up to the Mayor's house and were in there for about ten minutes. When they came out they ordered us all to the town square and one of them got up on a podium and started going on about something, I was hardly paying attention honestly. I only caught the beginning where he, if you can believe it, thanked us for welcoming them to our fine city. His French was terrible, for your information, and the accent, well, I've heard Americans in Paris speak better. After he finally stopped talking another one stepped up and started reading off a list of rules; all firearms must be turned in, no radios, etcetera and etcetera. Oh, and we have a curfew, 10 p.m. Anyone caught out after that could face 'serious consequences'—as if we don't know what that means. Then, that was it, and everyone started going in their own direction and I got up here as fast as I could." She took a deep breath. "What's going to happen to us now?" she asked sadly.

Francis watched as ash from the tip of her cigarette fluttered onto the table top. "…they moved in next door," he said.

Olympe's jaw dropped. "Those monsters. You should come and stay with me. It's not safe out here. I never understood why you chose to live so away from town. Or why you stayed here even after….well," she trailed off and glanced at the ground.

"It's peaceful here," Francis said shortly, ignoring the last part of her comment. "And there's more space."

Olympe shook her head."Not anymore. Please be careful Francis."

"That's sweet. You do care about me." Francis reached over to pat her head.

She scowled and batted his hand away. "Just don't be an idiot," she said sharply. "I know how are."

"My sweet cousin, if everything goes how I want it to I'll never see them and they'll never see me. I'm keeping my distance, that's for sure."

They both looked up at the sound of someone knocking on the front door.

Olympe paled. She dropped the cigarette onto the table but by now it was nothing more than a stub that fizzled out in seconds. "It's them," she said. Her voice was shaking. "I know it's them."

Neither of them moved. The person knocked again. Francis hesitated before standing up. Olympe grabbed his arm.

"What are you doing?" she hissed. "Don't go! Ignore it!"

"They'll be back," Francis whispered. "It's better to get it over with now."

"I'm staying here," Olympe said. She crossed her arms and then uncrossed them and finally she stood up and went to stand by the window. "I won't speak to them."

"Fine. Just don't make any noise." Francis began walking slowly towards the door.

"Be careful," Olympe whispered.

After a pause, Francis unlocked the door with shaking fingers. He opened it and saw that it was one of the blonds—the one that had given the order earlier—and the brunet with glasses. Francis was sociable by nature—a serial flirt, according to his cousin. Even if his worst enemy stood in front of him he would still give them a sly smile, wink and then ask them what their plans were for the evening. But when he opened the door and saw the two soldiers standing there his mouth went dry and his mind went blank.

"Are you Francis Bonnefoy?" the blond asked. He spoke surprisingly well with only the faintest trace of an accent. Francis stared at him for a long time before he finally found his voice.

"Y-yes," he said.

"I'm Captain Ludwig Beilschmidt and this is 1st Lieutenant Roderich Edelstein. We will be living next door to you from now on," he said. "Along with two other soldiers."

The less lucid part of Francis's mind wondered if they were waiting for him to break into a wide smile and cheer, 'Welcome to the neighbor!' And then, later, he and Olympe would take over a plate of fresh baked croissants and drop off a dinner invitation…

Both men looked as if they were still waiting for a response. He nodded slowly.

"We are hoping that there will be no trouble. Have you been read the rules?"

"Yes."

"Curfew is at ten."

"Yes."

"Do you live here alone?"

"Yes." He sounded like a simpleton but it was all he could say. The Captain gave him a long look but seemed overall satisfied by his answers. Suddenly, there came the sound of a crash from the kitchen. Francis jumped and the Captain frowned.

"Who else is here?" he asked suspiciously.

"My-my cousin," Francis said.

"I thought you said you lived alone."

"I do. She visits."

"She lives in town?"

"Yes."

"I see. Can you ask her to come out here?"

Francis nodded and walked slowly back to the kitchen. When he got there he saw the floor was covered in broken glass. Olympe was pressed against the counter, a look of terror on her pale face. Francis maneuvered around the glass and took her hand.

"They want to see you," he said.

She shook her head, her eyes pleading. He gave her hand a quick squeeze and then pulled her around the mess and to the front door.

"This is my cousin," Francis said.

"Name?" the Captain asked.

Francis was about to speak for her but Olympe surprised him by speaking up first.

"DuPont. Olympe DuPont," she said clearly.

Francis glanced at her and saw that her small pink mouth was set in a defiant thin line, her eyes steely. He only knew how scared she was by the way her hand shook in his.

"Miss. DuPont, are you aware of the rules now in place?" the Captain asked.

Olympe lifted her chin. "Of course," she said haughtily.

The Lieutenant frowned but the Captain only nodded. He turned back to Francis. "We will be going now. Thank you for your time."

Francis watched the two men leave and didn't close the door until they had shut the gate behind them.

"That was…intense," he said as he flipped the lock in place.

"So much for not seeing them," Olympe muttered darkly.

"At least they were polite."

"If you call breaking into some else's house 'polite'." Olympe sighed, her shoulders sagging. "Can I stay with you tonight?"

Francis smiled, glad that she had asked before he did. "Of course."

.

.

.

By the end of the week, the soldiers had become just another part of daily life in Imaldee. They moved quickly into the empty houses of the people that had fled. Olympe was livid and fretted for days in fear that they would take the accountant's apartment but, in the end, it was left alone.

Initially, Francis saw little of his new neighbors and was glad not to. At night, if he left his bedroom window open and they did not close theirs, he could hear them speaking in their rough language. Sometimes, someone laughed and he couldn't help but wonder if it was the soldier with the shockingly light hair, who had been so curious and excited about the house. Francis didn't know his name.

.

.

.

Three days a week, Francis worked at the clothing store in town. Before the war, he had dabbled in the field of clothing design and had made occasional trips to Paris to submit his sketches to various boutiques. What had started out as a hobby to keep his mind off the past had eventually begun to shape into a possible career. He might have become famous. He had been heading in that direction. But the war had ruined everything. Now, whenever he picked up his sketchpad, he would only stare at the clean, white paper, willing himself to put something down, but his pencil would only lie unmoving in his hand until he became frustrated and threw the sketchpad aside. He had lost something, not just drive and inspiration, but something else, something he could not get back, no matter how hard he tried. Another reason to hate the Germans and their war. But he could still sew, knew what hat went best with what skirt and knew that there was such a thing as over accessorizing. So, he made himself useful to the old woman who owned the store, whose own husband was dead and whose two sons had gone off to England to fight. He spent most of his days mending clothes and charming women into spending more money than they could afford to on outfits they didn't need but bought nonetheless, if only to have one thing to be happy about. There wasn't much to smile about these days. Francis didn't work for the money; he owned his house and had enough money saved to live comfortably for the next few years. He worked so that he wouldn't have to sit idly in his house, mulling over mistakes he couldn't remedy and a future he had no control of. He could also see Olympe more often.

It was the end of the first week of the occupation of Imaldee. The store had been busier than normal. Ruthless invaders or not, the German soldiers were still human—although some begged to differ—and like everyone else suffered from rips and tears in their clothes and even, every so often, lingered in the small store, poking through the inventory while Francis watched them warily from behind the front counter. Despite his own complicated feelings about doing so, he dutifully mended uniforms and gave the soldiers a chilly smile whenever they bought anything. He had lunch with his cousin twice a week and that day she had confirmed his earlier fears by revealing that the bakery was already running low on sugar and chocolate.

"What we have left will probably last another month, at best," Olympe had said mournfully. "And who knows when we'll be able to get more?"

Nonetheless, she had still given Francis a box of macarons before she had gone back to work. He carried the box under his arm as he wheeled his bike up the hill to his house, intent on making them last as long as possible. He slowed down when he heard sounds coming from his neighbor's front garden. He walked forward cautiously until he was close enough to see that one of the soldiers was in the garden, furiously digging up weeds. It was the one with the light hair that Francis could now see was indeed white, as strange as that was because the man couldn't be much older than himself. He froze where he was, waiting to be noticed, to be asked what he was staring at but the soldier didn't look up, didn't realize how intensely he was being watched. He was too fixated on the task at hand. Francis absentmindedly wondered if he knew that he was working in vain. His neighbors had ceased to care for their garden years ago, letting it grow as wild as it wished. It was now a dense jungle of deep, stubborn tangled roots, stunted trees, unrelenting wildflowers and overgrown shrubbery. Clearing it was a job that even he, with his perfect, immaculate garden would not have volunteered for.

He stood there for a few more seconds, listening to the soldiers noises of frustration as he tried to uproot a small tree, before he, as quietly as possible, walked to his house. He tied up his bike and then hurried inside. He set the box from Olympe on the kitchen table and peered out the window, feeling like a nosy neighbor. The soldier was still working. He paused only to take off the jacket of his uniform, revealing underneath a white shirt and strong arms. Francis watched him a long time, realizing that he had wanted him to notice him standing there and wanted him to look up now and see him watching from the window. But the soldier didn't look up so Francis eventually, reluctantly, left the window and went to put away Olympe's gift.

The next day he didn't have work and the weather was pleasant enough that Francis decided to forgo his spring cleaning plans to lounge in his own garden. The black car was gone from the front of his neighbor's house and he deemed that enough proof that it was safe to venture outdoors. He set his chair among his red roses, facing his house, with his back to the gate and the road. He had brought a new box of cigarettes with him—the last box in his house. He was going to have to ask Olympe to bring him more soon, if she could find any. He flipped open the worn paperback he had also brought outside and settled into the chair, looking forward to a relaxing afternoon. However, his lighter refused to work. He had used it only the previous day and knew it couldn't possibly be empty. But it still wouldn't light, no matter how many times he tried. Francis made a frustrated noise of disgust and finally tossed it aside.

"Having trouble?" asked a mocking voice from behind.

Francis barely held in a gasp of fright. He spun around to see it was the white-haired soldier who had startled him and who was now leaning against his gate. He was wearing smug look and seemed to find the shocked expression on Francis's face amusing because he smiled wider.

"There's no trouble here," Francis said quickly.

"Something wrong with your lighter?" the soldier asked. His accent was more apparent that the Captain's but he still spoke well enough. Francis disliked him at once.

"It's broken, I believe."

The soldier reached into his pocket and Francis tensed up, expecting the worst, but he only pulled out a scratched silver lighter.

"Want to use mine?" he asked, holding it up. It glinted in the afternoon sun.

"I'm fine," Francis said shortly.

"Are you sure?" The soldier was still smiling.

"Yes."

"Are you really sure? You look like you could use a cigarette."

"You have no right to be presumptuous," Francis wanted to snap back at him but he held his tongue and said nothing.

"What are you smoking, or would be smoking?" the soldier asked.

"Gauloises," Francis said proudly.

"I've been in this country a few weeks already but, I don't know why, I haven't gotten accustomed to your cigarettes."

"Too strong for you?" Francis asked, daring to be smug.

The soldier pulled a box of cigarettes from his pocket—Francis could see the German words on the front—and lit one up.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "they're just not to my taste. I have very particular and special tastes. I'm the kind of person who deserves only the best. Are you sure you don't want a light?"

"No," Francis said standing up. "I'm actually going inside now."

"You haven't asked my name yet," the soldier said. "We _are_ neighbors now."

"I need to go inside."

"You're not even mildly curious as to who I am?"

Francis felt his eye twitch. "Should I be?"

The soldier took a deep drag from the cigarette. "Yes. Very much. I really am the only one worth knowing in that house," he said.

Francis was fully frustrated by now but could see that the only way out of this situation was to play along.

"Fine then. Who are you?" he asked.

"2nd Lieutenant Gilbert Beilschmidt," the soldier said with a lazy salute. He smirked when he saw the look of recognition flash across Francis's face. "Yes, I am related to that muscle freak you met on the first day. He's my brother."

Francis said nothing.

"So what's _your_ name?" Gilbert asked.

"I thought you would know by now," Francis said.

"There are a lot of people in this town. I can't remember everyone on the list."

Unnerved as he was by the fact there was a list, he still answered, "…Francis."

"Just Francis?" Gilbert asked slyly.

"Bonnefoy."

"Francis Bonnefoy. Nice to meet you." Gilbert held out a hand. Francis only glared at it. "Come on. You can't just leave me like this. It won't be a proper introduction unless we shake hands. You can go inside after. So come on."

Reluctantly, Francis inched forward and, after a moment's hesitation, took the outstretched hand. He intended to pull away immediately afterwards but Gilbert held on and he felt something pushed onto his palm. Then Gilbert let go, tipped his cap and grinned.

"Perhaps I'll see you again Francis," he said. He turned around and headed back to the neighbor's house.

Francis watched him go and then looked down at his hand to see what had been given to him.

It was the lighter.

* * *

><p>The following week began with heavy rain. Despite his best efforts to shield himself from the downpour, Francis was still soaked when he arrived at work on Monday morning.<p>

"You should have stayed home and saved yourself the trouble. I doubt anyone will come in today. Not with this weather," said Babette, the owner of the store. She was affectionately called Babs by everyone. She was 65 and had lived in Imaldee her whole life. She was plump, with a perpetual rosy face and had a grandmotherly look to her, although she was often heard lamenting to customers and friends about how neither of her two grown sons had given her grandchildren yet. Now, both sons were fighting in the war and it was uncertain if she would ever see either of them again.

"Being able to see your lovely face is enough to bring me here, rain or shine," Francis said as he hung up his wet jacket.

Babs, who was used to his flirtations, laughed. "Shame on you Francis Bonnefoy for making an old woman blush."

"Old? You don't look a day over 30."

"Oh, stop it. I will not have lies told in my store, no matter how delightful. Now, go to the back room and get yourself dry. You're making a puddle on my floors."

Francis looked down and saw that she was right. He sighed and ran a hand through his damp hair. "It's completely ruined," he said, holding up a limp strand.

"Nonsense," Babs said. "Run a towel through it and you'll look fine."

"If only it was that simple," Francis said. "Hopefully no one I know comes in today. I can't bear to be seen like this. Where are we on the orders?"

"Nearly done with last weeks and with this weather probably won't have anything new for a day or two."

"Thank God. I do believe I'm beginning to hate sewing. I feel as if I will be mending ripped pants for the rest of my life. It's ruining my fingers."

"Any new ideas yet?" Babs asked. They both knew what she was referring to.

"No," Francis murmured. His sketchpad was still lying on the floor of his room.

Babs gave him a warm smile. "Be patient. They'll come."

Francis shrugged. "Maybe…but not in this rain."

"Even our Lord and Savior wouldn't come back in this rain. Now go on back and change and then we can put away some of this inventory that I've unnecessarily laid out."

"Don't start without me," Francis said over his shoulder as he walked towards the door at back of the store. He pushed it open and stepped into the back workroom, a brightly lit, moderately sized room. In the middle of it were two large tables covered in fabric and various supplies. Up until the past year they had had two sewing machines but they had been donated to the war effort. A long clothes rack stood off to the side where finished orders were hung. It was almost completely filled. In the corner of the room was a large, handsome armoire, which was where Francis headed first. Inside were clean white towels and extra clothes. He took what he needed and went to the small bathroom tucked in the corner of the room. He grimaced when he turned on the light and saw his reflection in the mirror. His hair was plastered to his face and was beginning to show the first tell-a-tale signs of frizz. It would take hours to put it back in the glossy state it had been when he had left his house that morning. With no other options available, he changed and hung his wet clothes up to dry. He was toweling his hair when he heard the bell chime at the front of the store. If it was one person then Babs would be fine without him. Still, her eyesight wasn't what it used to be and she preferred to have him upfront whenever one of the soldiers came in—she disliked speaking to them herself. He could faintly hear the person's voice and they didn't sound like a native speaker. Francis tied his hair back and headed towards the door. He was about to pull it open when he realized that he recognized the voice, although he had only heard it once. Just then, the door flew open, smacking him in the face.

"Oh no! I'm so sorry dearie!" Babs said, her face distraught.

Francis rubbed his sore nose, groaning. "I'll be fine," he muttered. Now, not only did he have to deal with frizzy hair but also a red nose. He didn't even want to think about how he might look.

"Good, because I need your help. It's one of them," she whispered.

"Babs, I don't think—"

"Please, just do this for me?" The woman was looking more upset by the second and he could understand why. It was hard to civil to the people your sons were possibly dying fighting against.

Francis sighed. "Okay, I'll take care of it."

"Bless you. I need to run upstairs for a moment but I'll be back as soon as possible. I know you don't like them either but, honestly, who does?"

Babs hurried up the steps, leaving Francis to deal with the customer on his own. He took a deep breath and set his face in a look of stony seriousness but when he pushed open the door and saw who he knew would be there, he felt his cheeks heat up and his palms begin to sweat.

Gilbert was surprised to see him. "Francis? Fancy seeing you here. You work here?"

"Yes," Francis said. He hopped his voice was steady. The lighter was still sitting on his kitchen table. He felt his cheeks grow hotter. He had had every intention to return it but had yet to find the appropriate moment to do so. Over the weekend, Gilbert had continued to work in the garden and he had wandered in and out of the kitchen, peeking out the window, thinking of various ways to approach him, his favorite scenario being the one that had him marching up to Gilbert, throwing the lighter down on the ground and firmly informing him that he had no use for it and he would prefer that Gilb—the 2nd Lieutenant, stay away from his house in the future. But he hadn't been able to do this so the lighter still lay on his table and it seemed that it would be staying there for some time more.

"How can I help you?" Francis asked coldly.

Gilbert held up a piece of paper. "Dropping off orders. I've unfairly been made errand boy today."

Francis reached for the paper but Gilbert held it out of his reach, grinning.

"Have you enjoyed watching me work in the garden?" he asked.

Francis's mouth fell open but he quickly closed it. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, certain his face was an ugly bright red by now. "Now give me the paper."

"I've actually got a lot done," Gilbert said. "Some of the weeds are really stubborn but they don't stand a chance against me. I noticed how nice your own garden is. Any tips you care to share?"

"No," Francis said, "And I don't have time to talk. I'm very busy right now."

Gilbert looked around the store. "Really? Because I seem to be your only customer."

"I have work in the back to finish."

"Still have my lighter?" Gilbert asked.

Francis didn't answer and glared at the counter top.

"I thought so. Keep it."

"I don't want it," Francis said vehemently.

"Keep it. Do you have a pen?"

Francis sighed and took a pen from under the counter. He watched curiously as Gilbert scribbled something on the back of the paper before he handed both the pen and, finally, the paper to Francis who didn't pick them up immediately.

"When's you shift over?" Gilbert asked suddenly. For the first time, there was a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Francis raised an eyebrow. "Four, usually." With the weather as it was he would most likely be done before two but he didn't say this.

"It's coming down pretty bad out there and I don't think it will stop anytime soon. Luckily, being errand boy also means I get the car. Want, uh, a lift when you're done?"

Francis could have smiled at the faint pink blush that appeared on Gilbert's cheeks but he kept his face blank and his tone clipped.

"I have a bike," he said

"You'll be drenched."

"I'll live."

"I see…"

Francis snatched up the piece of paper and skimmed what was written on the front. "Your orders will be done by Wednesday. You can come pick them up then."

"I look forward to it," Gilbert said. He opened his mouth to say something else, but decided against it and turned and then left the shop.

As soon as he was gone, Francis flipped the paper over to see what he had written on the back. The handwriting was poor and hurried but he could still read the message.

_You look nice today._

Francis stared at the words and then burst out laughing. He hadn't been expecting that and suddenly felt stupidly happy. He tucked the paper into his pocket and, still chuckling, went back to the workroom, where he found Babs waiting for him, an unreadable expression on her lined face.

"He's gone," Francis said, hoping that would explain his smile. "What would you do without me?"

"You were out there a long time. I heard you two talking," Babs said quietly.

"I generally talk to customers."

"You sounded as if you were…familiar with each other."

Francis felt the smile slide off his face. He narrowed his eyes. "Babs, if there's something you want to say to me, just say it. I didn't do anything wrong, just my job."

Babs spoke looking at the floor. "I'm not accusing you of anything," she said.

"Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Your face is all red."

Francis resisted the urge to run to the bathroom to confirm this. "And that's a problem? What are you implying?" he said quickly.

"Nothing. I just want you to take care."

"I'm not a child."

Babs smiled. "My oldest is five years older than you and he still seems like a baby to me." Her eyes became sad. "Just avoid those people. Please."

"I'll try but it's not easy when they're living next door to you."

"The war will be over soon."

"That's what everyone says. I'm not so sure if I believe it anymore." Francis turned and went back to the store.

It was still raining by Wednesday. Francis went to work nonetheless. Around noon, 1st Lieutenant Edelstein came in to pick up the orders. Francis tried not to feel disappointed.

* * *

><p>The summer of 1940 brought good weather but worse news. Despite the prohibition of radios, Olympe revealed to Francis that Oliver had managed to keep one from the Germans. This worried Francis, who was afraid that his cousin would get into trouble if the device was ever found. He didn't trust Oliver, who had acquired somewhat of a revolutionary spirit since the occupation had begun. Still, it was almost like a luxury to be able to hear what was going on around the rest of the world. Imaldee had slowly returned to its sleepy state, even with the foreign presence, and, except for German propaganda and rumors, no news reached the town. Olympe often relayed the news updates to him during their lunch dates.<p>

"It's getting worse for the English," she said one day. "They're reporting bombings nearly every night in London."

Francis thought of his neighbors, who had fled for England and wondered if they had made it and how—if—they were surviving.

"If Britain falls then it's all over and Hitler wins. And those fools across the Atlantic still sit there twiddling their thumbs," Olympe said heatedly. "Are the Americans going to wait until all of Europe is destroyed to act?"

"I've never seen you look so passionate before. It's very attractive," Francis said lightly.

Olympe scowled. "Can you please be serious, for once?"

Francis sighed. "I don't know what you want me to say. The war will be over soon. Britain won't surrender." The words were meant to be comforting but they fell flat and Olympe didn't look any less upset.

"We're officially out of sugar at the bakery," she said. "The last bit ran out yesterday." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small package. "Here," she said, sliding it over to him.

Francis picked it up and unwrapped it. Inside was a single madeleine. He broke off a corner and put it in his mouth, wondering if he would ever have a chance to taste such fluffy sweetness again.

"Thanks," he said. "Do you want any?"

Olympe shook her head. "I don't have much of an appetite."

"I can tell. You haven't touched your lunch. Did something happen?" Had the soldiers found the radio? Was Oliver planning to paint V for Victory around the town again?

"There was a party last night. It was hosted by one of the Germans at the old farmhouse. Louise invited me but I didn't think it would be right to go. And then, this morning, she comes into the bakery and tells me that she kissed one of them!" Olympe looked amazed. "She even said she wouldn't mind being his girl. Can you believe that? How could anyone feel anything for those people?"

Francis was still looking at the half-eaten madeleine in his hand, afraid that if he looked up he would betray himself. He hadn't spoken to Gilbert in weeks but saw him often on the street, usually accompanied by a group of soldiers. Francis always turned and walked in the other direction when he saw him. He still worked in the garden from time to time, although with little visible success. His lighter still lay on the kitchen table. Olympe was the only person in the world Francis could trust but he now knew that his secret would be too much, even for her. He wouldn't be able to bear her looking at him with the look of disgust she now had on her face. He couldn't lose her too.

"I think Louise and a lot of other people are just excited to see some new faces around. It will pass. The soldiers won't be here forever. And anyone with enough sense knows that such a relationship will only end tragically," he said to both convince her and himself. "Don't worry too much about it."

Olympe sighed but nodded. "You're right," she said.

"Of course I am. But speaking of relationships, how's Oliver?"

Olympe rolled her eyes. "Please don't get me started. He's been visiting the bakery more often and it's becoming a very big problem. Also, you know the accountant's empty apartment? He asked to move into it! Can you believe that? Of course I told him that that wouldn't be proper since Mr. Brun will no doubt wish to have his apartment back once he returns and, anyway, why would he want to leave his poor aging mother all by herself in that big house?"

"Goodness," Francis said grinning, "I do believe he might be in love with you."

Olympe made a face. "Perish the thought. I really do need to set him straight. I enjoy being his friend and that's all. I'll tell him that next time I see him."

"Let him down easy, love."

Olympe smirked. "I can't promise anything. Oh yes, I just remembered. I couldn't get you anymore Gauloises. There are only German cigarettes around now," she said.

It's was Francis's turn to make a face. "Thanks, but no thanks. No chocolate, no sugar, no cigarettes. This war better end soon."

* * *

><p>A few weeks later, Francis overslept and had to hurry to get to work on time. He had been busier than usual recently. Summer meant the children were out of school and this led to more ripped and torn clothes, as well as the need for new ones to replace clothes that had grown too small.<p>

As he wheeled his bike onto the road, Francis glanced over at his neighbor's house. The car was gone and there was no sign that anyone was home. It seemed now that whatever had been between him and Gilbert had passed. If you could call two short awkward conversations something. Most likely Francis had been suffering from the same excitement that Louise, Olympe's friend, had felt over the new arrivals. It had been a passing fancy, something to keep his mind occupied. That was all. Yet, the 2nd Lieutenant was often on his mind and had an annoying habit of showing up in places where Francis least expected him to be. He had run into him on three occasions the day before and all three times Francis had scurried off before either could speak. It seemed almost cowardly to run away like that, but truthfully, Francis wasn't sure what he would have said if he had stayed. He got terribly tongue-tied whenever he imagined a conversation between the two, which infuriated him because he never got tongue-tied.

Francis was so preoccupied with his thoughts regarding his brief and most definitely over infatuation, coupled with worry over Olympe, who was now in need of a second job and Babs, who was still recovering from news that one of her sons had gone missing and needed his help more than ever in the store and would be upset over his lateness that morning, that he didn't notice The Dip as he sped down the hill until seconds before he reached it and, even then, didn't have enough time to slow down or swerve before his bike hit the depression and he was thrown into the air. He landed with a sickening thud on the ground, rolling until finally coming to a stop against the wooden fence that lined the path. His head was spinning and his chest was on fire—the wind had been knocked out of him when he had hit the ground and he struggled to breathe. He wheezed and then broke into a fit of coughing as he inhaled a cloud of dust. He was covered in dirt, could feel it on his face, in his hair but there was no blood, thank goodness.

Groaning, he rolled slowly onto his back and waited for the inevitable rush of pain. It came slowly as his rattled brain became more and more aware of what hurt and what hurt more. Surprisingly, he could feel nothing broken. A quick check revealed that he was badly bruised and battered but otherwise unhurt. However, when he tried to stand up, he gasped as pain shot through his right ankle and he collapsed back onto the ground. He rolled up the right leg of his pants and saw that his ankle was turning a nasty shade of red and purple and was already beginning to swell. He touched it gingerly, wincing, and surmised that, at worst, it was just sprained. He could still faintly see the very top of his house from where he was sitting but wasn't sure how he could get back up the hill without help. Every inch of him was aching and he wanted nothing more than to lie back and sleep. He wondered if he had a concussion. Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the path. Although his next door neighbors had fled, there were still people living in some of the houses that lined the road and he hoped that it was one of them coming to rescue him. He was more than a little surprised when Gilbert came whistling around the corner and froze when he saw Francis on the ground. Neither said a word, too shocked to speak. In the back of his mind, Francis thought that he must look like a mess; covered in dirt and cradling a swollen ankle. He felt a surge of righteous fury when Gilbert burst out laughing.

"Shut up! I said shut up!" Francis yelled, knowing that he was not only filthy but now bright red.

"You should see yourself!" Gilbert said cackling. "You look ridiculous!"

"And you look like a fucking asshole," Francis snapped before he could stop himself.

Gilbert stopped laughing but he still had a wide grin on his face. "Ouch. That hurt. You're lucky it's just me. Anyone else you said that to might not be as forgiving."

"I know," Francis admitted reluctantly.

"So I guess I should ask how you ended up like this," Gilbert said.

"Or you could just keep laughing."

"Really?"

"No you idiot," Francis said through clenched teeth. His head was beginning to hurt and the pain in his ankle was getting worse.

"Someone's in a bad mood today."

Francis gave him his angriest glare.

"But seriously now, what happened?" Gilbert asked sincerely enough for Francis to tell him.

"I was running late to work and was in a hurry and I wasn't paying attention and ran into The Dip," Francis said.

"That what?"

Francis pointed to the depression in the road where his bike lay. "It's dangerous to ride over it going too fast, which I was."

"So why didn't you just slow down?"

"I already said I wasn't paying attention," Francis snapped.

"Okay, got it. So you hit it and then went flying?"

"More or less."

"Anything broken?"

"I think I sprained my ankle."

Gilbert crouched down for a better look and Francis tensed up when he realized just how close they now were. He could see that Gilbert had a faint scar on his left cheekbone and wondered how he had got it.

"Don't touch it," Francis said when Gilbert reached out. "It hurts. A lot." Mostly, he didn't want to be touched by him, afraid that he might like how it felt afterwards.

"Well, I'm no expert on sprained ankles but yours looks pretty banged up. And it's turning funny colors."

Francis rolled his eyes. "Thank you 2nd Lieutenant Obvious. Will you help me stand up now?"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "You're asking _me_ for help?"

"I can't stand by myself." Francis huffed. "And there's no one else around so—" Before he could finish, Gilbert had grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet. He winced at the pain caused by the sudden movement. Quickly, he moved away from Gilbert and hopped over to the fence, which he had to hold on to for balance. He heard snickering from behind but repressed the urge to scream.

"You can go now," Francis said. "I can get back from here."

Gilbert pretended to look offended. "No thank you? How rude."

Francis scowled at him. "Thank you," he said tightly. "Now go."

Gilbert took a step towards him and he leaned further against the fence.

"So you're giving me orders now?" Gilbert asked amused. "First you insult me—twice—and now this. You are…a surprise, Francis."

"I've been told I'm charming too," Francis said with a frigid smile.

Gilbert laughed. "I can maybe see why." He brought his hands together and a look of determination appeared on his face. "Now, here's what we're going to do."

"We?" Francis said weakly.

"You get on my back and I'll carry you the rest of the way up."

Francis gaped at him, speechless for a few seconds before he finally said, "You're joking, right?"

"100% serious." Gilbert turned around and knelt down. "Get on."

"…No."

"Just get on."

"I said no!"

"What are you going to do, crawl up the hill?"

"If I have to."

"This will be so much easier."

"No."

"If you're worried about me then it's really no problem. Now get on."

"I absolutely refuse. No. Never."

Gilbert sighed and stood back up. "Okay then. I guess we're going to have to do this the hard way," he said as he began walking towards him.

"Stay away from me," Francis hissed. He gripped the fence tighter. "I said stay away!"

Gilbert ignored him. Before Francis could stop him, he bent down, wrapped his arms around his legs and lifted him over his shoulder. France shrieked as he lost his grip on the fence.

"You brute! You put me down at once!" he screamed, beating his fists against Gilbert's back. "I will not be treated like this! Are you listening to me?"

"You're really loud. Calm down," Gilbert said and started walking slowly up the hill.

"I will not! Put me down now!"

"Nope."

"Yes."

"No."

"Why are you doing this?" Francis wailed. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"I don't know, maybe you can tell me that."

"I think you're insane."

"And I think that you're the most interesting person I've ever met."

Francis stopped thrashing.

"And, for some reason," Gilbert continued, "since I first met you, I always want to be where you are."

Francis thought about the many times that he had seen Gilbert in town. The soldier always seemed to be around every corner, looking smug, as if he had been waiting for Francis to find him there.

"Like I said, you're a surprise Francis."

Francis said nothing. By now, his head hurt too much to think straight. Gilbert reached his house and swung open his front gate. He didn't put Francis down until they reached the door so that he could unlock it. Then, like a newly married couple entering their first house, Gilbert picked him up, bridle style, and carried him over the threshold. Francis was too dazed to do anything except point to the kitchen.

"Thank you," he muttered after Gilbert set him down gently onto the chair. "There's a first aid kit on top of the cupboard. If you could get that for me and also the bag of ice in the icebox and a hand towel by the sink I would be very grateful." He sat back in the chair and waited until Gilbert came back with the items.

"Thank you," he said, setting the bag of ice on his head.

"I thought that was for your ankle. And you already said thank you," Gilbert said.

"Well I'm saying it again. Take it or leave it!" Francis snapped.

Gilbert chuckled and Francis felt himself smile. "I'll take it," he said. He made a motion to open the first aid kit but Francis stopped him.

"No. I'll deal with the ankle myself," he said.

"Well how can I help?"

"You've done enough. Really."

Gilbert reached over and took the damp towel. He moved forward and Francis leaned back in his chair.

"What are you—"

"You have dirt on your face," Gilbert said. Francis flinched as the towel touched his cheek. "The color doesn't really suit you, brown."

"I like to think I look good in anything," Francis said proudly.

"Even dirt?"

Francis smirked. "I make dirt look lovely."

Gilbert grinned and dabbed his other cheek with the towel. They were looking directly at each other and Francis reasoned that it was the pain that was making him lightheaded.

"You have interesting eyes," Gilbert said. "They're almost purple."

"I could say the same for you. And your hair color isn't really common except in people over 50."

Gilbert shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a unique being, making me all the more awesome." He leaned back. "There, all clean."

"Than—good. You should go now. My cousin is visiting later today. She'll take care of the rest. Of course not before yelling at me for being an idiot first."

"Sounds like my kind of girl," Gilbert said.

Francis shot him a warning look but he only laughed.

"Fine. I'm going. But before I do…" He reached into his pocket and took out a box of cigarettes. He tossed them to Francis, who caught them and then saw that they were Gauloises. "Thought you might like that because I'm not smoking them."

Francis resisted the urge to say thank you once more. He grabbed Gilbert's lighter from the center of the table and held it out to him.

"I bought a new one. You should take it back," he said.

Gilbert grinned. "I already told you. Keep it. Take care of yourself," he said. He closed the front door after him, leaving Francis with his lighter and more complicated feelings than ever.

.

.

.

The following week, it was Francis who found Gilbert. He was coming up the road after a walk into town to purchase a few items when he saw him slumped against his front gate, surrounded by several empty bottles. Francis could smell the beer from where he stood on the road. He put down the bags in his hands and slowly approached Gilbert.

"Gilbert? What are you doing here?" he asked.

Gilbert blinked a few times as if he was trying to remember who this person in front of him was before he gave him a wide smile. "Fr-Francis, I'm…I'm sho happy to shee you," he slurred.

Francis sighed. "Damn it, you're completely drunk."

Gilbert waved a hand in the air. "No…not drunk. T-this ish the best I've felt in my whole fucking life." He groaned and his head fell against his chest.

When he didn't move again, Francis knelt down in front of him and slapped him across the face. Startled by the blow, Gilbert's head snapped back up. He put a hand to his cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked thickly, but coherently.

"To get you to wake the hell up," Francis snapped. "Now stand up. Up!"

Gilbert gave him a drunk smile. "There you go again, giving me orders. No one else would dare, but you…you're amazing."

"You can compliment me later. Now get up."

Francis shakily helped Gilbert to his feet. He winced at the slight pain in his ankle, which was still sore, but he ignored it and maneuvered both of them to his door. The best thing to do would have been to take Gilbert back to his neighbor's house but he couldn't tell if anyone else was there and it seemed unwise to leave Gilbert alone in such a state. He unlocked his front door and they stumbled into the dark house. Francis wheeled them towards the sitting room and only barely made it to the couch before his ankle gave out on him. He dropped Gilbert onto the couch and fell back onto the sofa chair, breathing heavily. His bags were still sitting in front of his house but those were the least of his concerns at the moment. After a few seconds, he stood up from the chair and hobbled over to Gilbert who was nodding off.

Francis shook him awake. "Don't you dare fall asleep on me," he hissed.

He then limped to the kitchen and filled a glass full of water. He was glad to see Gilbert sitting up when he returned.

"Do you feel like throwing up?" he asked.

Gilbert shook his head and Francis gave him water, which he gulped down quickly.

"Another?" Francis asked.

"No," Gilbert said quietly and handed the cup back.

Francis had never seen him not looking smug or laughing and found it strange and wrong to see him so still and emotionless. He set the cup down on the table and sat down on the sofa chair.

"Can you tell me why you were drinking in front of my house at 9:30 at night?" he asked.

Gilbert only shrugged.

Francis frowned. "You better have a reason or I swear I'll—"

"My brother is leaving," Gilbert blurted out. "He's been reassigned."

"Oh. To where?"

"Poland." The disgust in Gilbert's voice was clear, but there was fear too.

"Why Poland?" Francis asked. He knew nothing about the country except that it was under German control as well.

Gilbert shrugged again. "Classified special operations," he said as if it was something that he had recited hundreds of times. "I don't know the details."

Francis guessed that he knew more than he was saying but found that he didn't want to hear whatever he was keeping from him.

"When is he leaving?"

"Tomorrow. We only got the message yesterday…don't even have time to write a fucking letter home. And they won't let me go with him."

"I didn't know you were so eager to leave," Francis said with slight bitterness.

Gilbert didn't seem to hear him. "Yes he's a jerk with no sense of humor and always wants to control everything but he got me where I am today. If it wasn't for him they might have sent me to the front line," he said. "My brother is more responsible, more hardworking, more motivated. You would think that he's the older one. Before the war, we weren't close, but now I know him better than I ever thought I would and to lose him…I…I don't know what to do." Gilbert leaned back against the chair and put his hand over his face. He took a deep, rattling breath but didn't cry. He let his hands fall to side and stared blankly at the wall. "Why did it have to be Poland?" he whispered after some time.

Francis struggled to find the right words and finally said, "I've only met your brother once but he seems the type to be able to take care of himself. As for you, you're going to keep doing your job. Don't let what your brother has done for you be in vain." He couldn't believe that he was telling an enemy soldier to do his job, but, sitting as he was on the couch, Gilbert didn't seem very much like a soldier. He looked like a man who might be losing the last of his family.

Gilbert gave him a weak smile. "You're just full of surprises Francis," he said.

"You don't know the half of it," Francis said grinning. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better than I will in the morning."

"You…you can stay here until you feel well enough to go home." Francis said as he stood up. "I have some things to put away. I'll be back." He hurried outside to pack up the bags he had left on the road. It was completely dark outside and probably past curfew. When he came back inside, Gilbert was still sitting listlessly on the couch.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything," Francis said.

Gilbert only nodded.

Francis flipped on the lights, set the bags on the kitchen table and began to arrange the food he had bought in the pantry. He was suddenly grateful that Olympe had decided not to visit that evening. She had finally accepted a dinner invitation from Oliver but had only agreed, according to her, to tell him that she wasn't interested in a romantic relationship.

"I'm only 21! I'm not ready to settle down!" she had told Francis while rehearsing her speech. "Why can't he understand that?"

Due to the curfew, the dinner had been set to take place at Oliver's family's house. Francis almost pitied his cousin but was happy that she was there and not with him. He couldn't imagine what might have happened if she had gone through with her original plans.

When everything was put away, Francis began washing the few dishes in the sink. He spun around when he heard a sound behind him and saw that Gilbert had stepped into the kitchen, the empty glass of water in his hand.

"Thirsty," Gilbert said.

Francis took the glass from him. "Sit," he ordered.

Gilbert smirked for the first time that night as he sat down at the table. "Are you this bossy with everyone or am I just special?"

"You bring it upon yourself," Francis huffed. He refilled the glass and set it down on in front of Gilbert. "Drink it slower this time."

"Yes, mother," Gilbert said dryly.

Francis rolled his eyes and went to finish the rest of the dishes, trying not to think about the absurdity of the situation. He was nervous enough.

"So, you live out here alone?" Gilbert asked.

"Yes."

"Why so far from town?"

Francis gave him the answer he gave everyone. "It's peaceful. And it's not that far. It's only about a 15 minute walk from here to the center of town actually. Less if I ride my bike."

"No girlfriend?"

The question caught him by surprise and Francis nearly dropped the plate in his hands. "Well aren't we being nosy tonight," he said.

"Just curious."

"Isn't that sort of information on your list?"

Gilbert chuckled. "No, but I wish it was."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"No, uh, 'good friends'?"

Francis smiled and was glad that Gilbert couldn't see his face. "Nope. Just my darling cousin. I am very unattached." And, until recently, had been very happy that way. He hadn't had a serious relationship in years. "And yourself?"

"I've got a wife and three kids at home."

Francis did drop the plate this time but, luckily, he had been standing over the sink so it only fell back into the soapy water, spraying his clothes.

"Damn it," he said and grabbed a towel from the counter. He dabbed at the water stains on his shirt.

Gilbert snickered. "Careful over there. And I was just joking. I'm not married, or with anyone."

"It means nothing to me," Francis said as he wiped down the counter. He heard Gilbert stand up from the table and stop behind him but he didn't turn around.

"Here." Gilbert set the empty glass on the counter. "I feel better. I guess I should go now."

"Yes, I guess you should," Francis said curtly.

"Thank you for everything."

"It was no problem. I was just helping out a neighbor."

"Can-can I tell you something?" Gilbert said softly.

He was so close that Francis could feel the warm tickle of his breath against his neck.

"What?" he said equally as soft.

"I think about you…a lot."

Francis forced a laugh. "I've been told that I often leaving lasting impressions."

"I could have gone anywhere today, but for some reason I came here and I don't know why."

Francis finally turned around. His heart was pounding and he was surprised that Gilbert couldn't hear it.

"I can't answer that," he said.

"Can't or won't?"

"…Won't."

"Why not?" Gilbert asked, almost pleading.

"Because you don't know what you're getting into."

For Francis, it would have been too easy. He had never known that he possessed this type of self control until that moment. The past five years had been one person after the other; men, women, he enjoyed both. He knew—convinced himself—that he could wake up the next morning and feel absolutely nothing. As for Gilbert, Francis had no idea if this was old sport for him or something he had only dared to try in a new foreign place. He was looking at Francis with painful clarity but it was obvious that he was not yet completely sober. If Francis let him do what he wanted he would most likely hate himself afterwards. And he would hate Francis who didn't think he could bear having another person hate him.

"I think I know what I'm getting into," Gilbert said, leaning closer.

Francis put a hand to his chest, stopping him. "No, you don't. Go home 2nd Lieutenant Beilschmidt. Go home and forget you were here tonight. In fact, from now on it would be best if we didn't speak again. It will save us both from a lot of trouble." He then pushed him aside and went to open the front door. Gilbert followed slowly behind and stepped outside into the warm night but then stopped and turned back around to face Francis.

"So that's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"That's all there is to say. Goodnight." Francis closed the door and locked it. He went to the couch in the sitting room and let himself fall on top of it. He didn't sleep for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I'm very sorry for the long wait for this. I have this whole story fully outlined but I lacked the time to actually write it. Thanks for all the lovely reviews! This chapter was going to be longer but I'm cutting it to keep it at a moderate length. So I'm guessing two, maybe three more chapters after this. Hopefully no more than that, haha.

Please enjoy!

**Warnings: **Uh, I guess not extremely detailed sex ahead? This fic is already rated M but everyone appreciates a good warning I suppose

**Extra Notes: Olympe = Monaco, Belle = Belgium**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia**

* * *

><p><em>The Soldier Next Door<em>

II

Francis had lunch with Olympe later that week. He could tell right away that something was wrong. She refused to meet his eye and kept playing with her long braid.

"Olympe," he said finally, "if you actually enjoyed your date I won't judge you. Is that why you look so nervous?"

Olympe let her braid fall back into place and scowled. "The date was terrible and that's not what's bothering me," she said. She bit her lip. "I heard something from Louise this morning."

"About her German beau?" Francis asked smirking.

"No, about you," she said somberly and continued quickly, "Louise said Mrs. Brouchard told her that she saw one the soldiers leave your house, after curfew, Monday night."

Francis had gone numb.

Olympe gave him a long hard look before continuing, "I told her that Mrs. Brouchard must have been mistaken. She lives three houses down from you and if it was that dark she couldn't possibly be certain whom she saw, if she saw anyone at all. Besides, you would never let one of them into your house. Would you?"

Francis swallowed heavily. "One of the soldiers came to my house Monday night," he said so quietly that it was almost a whisper.

Olympe's jaw dropped. "How could—"

"It's not what you think!" Francis said quickly. "He came over to inform me that there would be some changes in leadership. The Captain next door is leaving—has left. He was reassigned." He couldn't lie to her completely.

Olympe narrowed her eyes. "And you had to let him inside to hear that?"

Francis shrugged and hoped his face didn't betray anything. "He said it was important and preferred to tell me the news indoors."

"I'm certain he could have told you outside. I doubt there were listening ears about at that time."

"I wasn't in the mood to argue. I was exhausted from work and got home late. He came in, told me what he needed to and left. End of story."

Olympe still look unconvinced.

Francis forced a smile. "Darling, what could have possibly happened?"

"I don't know Francis, you tell me."

Francis frowned. "There's nothing to tell because nothing happened." That was the actual truth and he said it with confidence. "I could give a fuck what Louise or Annette Brouchard, the town gossip, thinks but it hurts that you don't trust me."

"I trust you Francis. I just don't trust them." Olympe stood up. "I have to get back to work. I'll come by later tonight, okay?"

She was still upset and he knew it but he gave her his best smile and said, "I'll see you then."

* * *

><p>Behind Francis's house was a wide, rolling plain of grass dotted with bright wildflowers. It stretched down a quarter of a mile, eventually merging with a large forest. It was called 'The Commons' and technically belonged to everyone that lived on the hill, but since most of it lay behind and beyond his house, Francis considered it his. On clear summer days he and Olympe would take full picnic baskets into the field and lie out in the sun, eating petite fours and gossiping, but now there was war, Olympe was working two jobs and there would be nothing to put in the picnic basket anyway. Nonetheless, the following day, the sky was just the right blue and the temperate just the right warm so Francis spread out a blanket on the grass, laid down and smoked Gauloises, thinking about how to properly deal with all the current problems in his life. He hadn't seen Gilbert since his brother had left two days previous. It had been early in the morning when he had heard the deep rumbling sound of a car pulling up to the house. He had resisted the urge to peek out the window and had lain in bed staring at his ceiling, wondering how Gilbert was feeling at that very moment. Francis hadn't known the Captain very long or well. He didn't wish him the best or even good luck. He only wished he would survive whatever was in Poland, for Gilbert's sake. As for the 2nd Lieutenant himself, he seemed to be taking Francis's advice, which hurt, but he knew it was for the best.<p>

Francis smoked until there were only three cigarettes left in the box. By then, clouds had begun to appear in the sky. Not the white and fluffy variety but the dark grey type that preceded a storm. He sighed and rolled up the blanket. Although his first intention was to go straight back inside, he somehow ended up leaving the neatly rolled blanket on the grass and walking towards the forest. He was nearing the trees when he thought he heard someone call his name. He turned and saw that it was Gilbert running towards him. Francis groaned because this was the last person he wanted to see at the moment.

"Why are you here?" Francis asked when Gilbert was close enough.

"Where are you going?" Gilbert asked, coming to a stop in front of him. He was grinning widely and Francis thought that he preferred this to the look of despair he had worn the last time they had seen each other. "Running off?"

"No, just going for a walk."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "By yourself in the woods? That's a bit suspicious."

"This forest goes on for about five miles and ends at the edge of a cliff. There's nowhere to go."

"Still, I can't just let you go walking by yourself outside town limits." Gilbert wagged a finger at him. "That would be against the rules."

Francis frowned. "Are you ordering me to go back?"

"No, I'm asking to come along."

"No."

Gilbert pouted. "Why not?"

"Because I want to be alone."

"Now I'm really suspicious. So are you meeting with the resistance or perhaps a secret lover, hmm?"

"I just don't want your company now, you irritant," Francis snarled in English.

Gilbert burst out laughing and then answered back in perfect English, "Well you have it whether you like it or not. So, what now?"

Francis sighed. "Fine. Come along if you want but it's going to rain soon."

"How can you tell?"

"Clairvoyance."

"Seriously?"

"No, you idiot, the clouds."

Gilbert looked up. "Oh, I see. There aren't too many; we still have time. Do you come out here often?" He said it with sincerity so Francis refrained himself was snapping back.

"I used to," Francis said as they walked through the trees. It was an old forest and centuries old trees towered above them, blocking out the sunlight.

"How long have you lived in that house?"

"I moved to Imaldee when I was a little more than ten but I only moved to that house after I got married."

As he expected it to, this news shocked Gilbert.

"You're _married_?" he exclaimed. "Or are you just joking like I was?"

"_Was._ I _was_ married. We divorced five years ago," Francis said casually.

"What happened?" Gilbert asked, his tone slightly calmer now.

"None of your business."

"What was her name?"

Francis kicked at the ground, disrupting a pile of twigs and pebbles. "…Belle."

"Was she pretty?"

"She was lovely."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Where is she now?" he asked. There was bitterness in his voice that Francis pretended not to hear.

"I don't know. We didn't keep in touch. I just know that wherever she is, she's happier there than she ever was with me."

"What? Were you a shitty husband or something?"

Francis glared at him. "I most definitely wasn't the best…and this personal interview ends now. I shouldn't even have told you any of that." He never talked about Belle with anyone and most people knew enough of the story not to ask. Even Olympe knew better than to bring her up.

To his surprise, Gilbert didn't pester him for more information but instead only shrugged and said, "Okay."

A long silence stretched between them. They were walking deeper into the forest and Francis wondered if they would keep going until they reached the end. But the end of what, he didn't know.

"So how are you holding up without your brother?" Francis asked finally.

"Awesome. Never better," Gilbert said breezily. "They might even let me visit him in a few months."

"Who's in charge now?"

Gilbert made a face. "Edelstein."

Francis couldn't help but laugh at his expression. "What? You don't like him?"

"I can't stand him. He's a stick in the mud and a pain in the ass. I've seen rocks with more personality. And he has absolutely no respect for the greatness that is I."

Francis laughed again.

"It's nice to hear you laugh," Gilbert said. "And I was beginning to think that all you could do was scowl and sneer. Just like you're doing now."

"Do you find it amusing, getting on my nerves?" Francis huffed.

"Just a little. I'm joking. Actually, it's hilarious to see you all riled up."

Francis's scowl deepened as Gilbert laughed harder. He looked up at the sound of thunder. A raindrop hit his head.

"Damn it," he said as he felt another. "We need to turn around, now."

They had walked further into the forest than he had thought and hadn't gone far before the downpour began. Gilbert pulled him under a large tree whose wide spaced leaves provided well enough cover from the rain.

"This is all your fault," Francis snapped. He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced when he found it was damp. Soon it would be frizzy. "This is just fucking perfect." He crossed his arms and leaned against the tree.

"How is it my fault?" Gilbert asked.

"This never would have happened if I had been by myself. Now I have to stand out here with you and freeze."

"It will stop soon. Stop whining."

"Why did you even follow me here? I thought I made it clear that it would be best for both of us if we stayed away from each other."

"Why are you so resistant to me?"

"Don't make me spell it out for you," Francis hissed angrily. "You know why."

Gilbert gave him a bitter smile. "Have you even considered that I might be someone besides the soldier?"

"Why should I when there's no point? Up until now I've been patient with you. I am grateful for your assistance after my accident and I admit that I did feel some sympathy towards you regarding your brother's departure but that is done. Just talking to you is a betrayal and I love my country too much. So just stay away from me, okay? Just stay away. It will save us both from a lot of pain."

Gilbert turned to face him and gave him a look that made his heart skip a beat. "That was a pretty little speech." He took a step closer to Francis. "But here's one thing you should know about me. When I see something I want I don't give up until I have it. Right now, I want you."

He pushed Francis against the trunk of the tree and kissed him roughly.

Francis reached up and punched him.

Gilbert staggered back, clutching his cheek. The skin was already turning red.

"I could have your life for that," he said calmly.

"Then what's stopping you?" Francis said. He had no idea where that sudden burst of courage had come from but it was quickly dissipating and the words came out shaky. Was he insane? What had he just done?

Gilbert approached him slowly. "Good thing I don't want your life. I just want this."

He kissed him again, gentler this time. Francis tensed up but his resistance lasted only a few seconds. This time, instead of pushing him away he found himself grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him closer. He wanted this, although he would never admit it. The kiss became desperate and needy and they clung to each other. Francis moaned softly as Gilbert sucked on his lower lip and then bit down on it. A million and one thoughts were running through his mind but he could focus on none of them as Gilbert pressed him harder against the tree. They pulled apart only to catch their breaths. Gilbert's eyes were dark and triumphant and this only heightened Francis's arousal. There was nothing more erotic than simply being wanted. Francis ran his hand through the tangle of wet white locks and pulled Gilbert back to him. He swiped his tongue over Gilbert's bottom lip and when Gilbert parted his mouth, he slipped his tongue inside, intent on exploring every inch of it. Heat and desire had travelled between his legs and he groaned as Gilbert thrust his body against his. Before he could say anything, Gilbert's hands had already traveled down to undo his belt.

"No," Francis whispered against his lips. "You don't have to."

Gilbert smirked. "I want to," he said as his undid the buttons of Francis's pants. He then broke the kiss and knelt down in front of him. Francis let his head fall back against the tree, thinking at that moment only of how risky this was but the last thing he wanted was to stop. He hissed softly as Gilbert touched him; it had been too long since anyone had touched him. The small part of his mind that could still process logical thoughts told him that he knew where this would inevitably lead. Since Belle, his relationships had become like a book that had been read too often with an ending that never changed—and it was never a happy ending. Physically though, it would have been impossible to stop. He could barely muffle a groan as Gilbert took him in his mouth. At first, he had no technique, just spit and barely a rhythm but quickly he was able to coordinate his hands with his mouth and Francis's breath was soon coming in short gasps. He laced his hands through Gilbert's hair, careful not to pull, the other man's name falling off his lips in a fast breathy, mantra. It took all of his power not to completely fall apart when Gilbert began using his teeth. Watching him only wound Francis tighter but he found that he couldn't look away. Too afraid of being caught and too sensitive after trying so long to prevent this, Francis couldn't last long. Afterwards, he lay against the tree, the stars fading from his vision, panting heavily as Gilbert redid his buttons. He suddenly realized that the rain had stopped.

Gilbert stood up and Francis couldn't believe he was still smirking.

"You didn't," Francis said.

"I did," Gilbert replied.

"I wonder if I should be proud."

"You should be fucking ecstatic."

They both laughed.

"The rain's stopped. We should go," Francis said.

"We're not done yet," Gilbert said, reaching for him.

Francis stopped his hand and shook his head. "Not here, not now. It's too risky."

"Then where?" Gilbert asked huskily, impatiently.

Francis thought quickly before answering, "Tonight. After curfew at my house. Come around the back."

"I'll be there."

"You should probably leave first," Francis said. "Just to be safe."

Gilbert smirked. "Just to be safe."

He started to turn to leave when Francis pulled him close and kissed him deeply. He tasted himself on his lips and found that he loved it.

.

.

.

Olympe came to visit later that afternoon.

"What are you doing here?" Francis asked when he opened the front door and found her standing there.

"How rude," she said before brushing past him. "I _was_ going to apologize but now I'm not so sure."

"Apologize? For what?" Francis asked as he closed the door. He thought they had made peace when she had visited yesterday.

Olympe took a seat on the couch. "For what I said during lunch yesterday. I should never have doubted you. You're far from perfect but you're not all that bad."

Francis felt like he would drown in the wave of guilt that washed over him. He had wanted to tell her but now it was too late.

"Now, sit down," Olympe said, patting the spot next to her. "We need to talk."

"About?" Francis asked, trying to keep his voice even.

"Oliver," Olympe said darkly. "It was one dinner. One ridiculous dinner and now him and everyone else in this town thinks we're together. He has become a major problem." She curled her small hands into tights fists. "He is an irritating bug that needs to be squashed."

Francis breathed a sigh of relief and sat down next to her. "How long do you plan on being here?" he asked.

"I was actually thinking of staying the night." He could hear the worry in her voice. She believed that he was innocent but she still feared for him.

"No!" Francis said so quickly that it startled both of them. "Tonight is bad. Very bad."

Olympe crossed her arms. "And why is that?"

"I…was thinking of sketching tonight."

"You haven't drawn anything in over year."

"Exactly! Which is why it's so important that I have peace and quiet."

"I'll stay out of your way."

"Not good enough. I absolutely must be alone. Please my darling Oly?" He purposely called her by her childhood nickname hoping it would help sway her.

Olympe gave him a skeptical look but then she shrugged. "Alright, that's fine," she said.

"Thank you, love," Francis said, patting her head.

"Stop it," she said but not meanly. "So, are you going to help me with my problem or not because I'm not leaving here until you do."

"About sweet Oliver? You could give him to me."

"I'm not that cruel."

"Then I might need to think about this one for awhile. Let's have a drink. Tea, coffee or wine? Wait, I only have two of those and one's nearly finished."

"Tea is fine," Olympe said. "And I brought something that will cheer you up. Think of it as an addition to my apology." She handed him a small box.

He opened it and found two small chocolate éclairs.

"It wasn't easy to come by those ingredients but I guess you are worth it. Sometimes"

Francis gave her a warm smile although he was writhing from guilt on the inside. Sitting on the couch in her pale pink dress with matching hair ribbon, Olympe looked like a picture of goodness and innocence. What had he done to deserve such a wonderful person? And was he willing to betray her, again, for a night of simple pleasure?

Yes, he was.

* * *

><p>Francis was pacing back and forth in the kitchen when there was a knock on the back door. The clock on the wall read a quarter past 11. He opened the door to find a sheepish looking Gilbert.<p>

"Second thoughts?" Francis asked.

"No. Edelstein wouldn't let me leave until I told him where I was going," Gilbert said as he stepped inside.

"And did you?"

"No so he had a little hissy fit and began going on about 'proper military conduct'. At first I stayed to humor him, because I'm a great person like that, but then I just walked out. He's probably still talking."

"What's he like, Edelstein?"

"He's the worst. A stuffy aristocrat. He probably thinks he's even better than me, which he definitely is not."

"Is he married?"

"Believe it or not, yes. To this crazy Hungarian woman. I met her once, right before we left Germany, and she tried to beat me to death with her bag. Edelstein keeps a picture of her by his bedside and won't let me touch it." Gilbert gave him a sly look. "Why so curious all of a sudden? Are you interested in him?"

"Perhaps," Francis said coyly. They were standing in the front room now. "Can I get you anything?"

Gilbert shook his head and glanced around the room. "This place looks different since I last saw it," he said.

"Most likely because you're sober now."

Gilbert shrugged. "I guess. You have a nice place."

"Thank you," Francis said. He suddenly realized that they were both stalling. He took Gilbert's arm and led him up the stairs. "Let me give you the grand tour."

"This is my cousin's room," he said, pausing at the first door at the top of the stairs. "She lives in town but she visits often, I'm sure you already knew this. She's like a little sister. The room at the end of the hall was the one I shared with my wife. It's empty now except for a few boxes so I usually keep it locked." Francis pointed to a short rope hanging from the ceiling. "That leads to the attic. It's actually quite large. You could probably hide a full-grown person in there." He pulled Gilbert into the room next to Olympe's. It was painted dark blue and sparsely, but neatly and elegantly decorated. "And this is my room. Lovely, yes?"

"It's very…you," Gilbert said, nodding towards the full-length mirror propped against the wall. He wandered over to the closet and pulled it open. "Gee, don't tell me these are all yours?"

"Would it surprise you if I said yes? I do work at a clothing store and that's means a lot of free and discounted merchandise."

Gilbert shut the closet and looked around the room as if he was searching for something. "No pictures. You didn't have any downstairs either. Everyone has pictures."

Francis was surprised that he had been so observant. "I put everything away before you and…your people arrived." But he didn't want to think about those memories. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Come here."

Gilbert walked slowly over to stand in front of him. Francis reached up to unbutton his jacket, tossing it carelessly aside once it was off. He then took off the shirt underneath, undid the belt and helped him out of his pants and underwear.

"Like what you see?" Gilbert asked. He was smirking but even in the dark it was obvious that his face was red. He had a bruise on his cheek from the punch Francis had given him earlier.

Francis grinned. "I love what I see." He started unbuttoning his own shirt. Gilbert knelt down and began working on his pants. "I have to ask if this is something you've done before." Francis added his shirt to the growing clothing pile on the floor.

"Sex?" Gilbert asked as he slipped off Francis's pants causing Francis to fall back onto the bed.

"With a man." They were now both completely devoid of clothing but there was still an air hesitation and nervousness that hovered around them.

Gilbert's hands, which had been slowly moving up Francis's sides in almost shy, exploratory motions, paused. "Once," he said slowly. "But that was a long time ago." His face held a mix of emotions.

"I don't want to force you into anything," Francis said, wondering when he had become so considerate.

"I'm doing this because I want to," Gilbert said.

Francis pulled him down to him and kissed him softly. "Then I promise to take good care of you," he whispered. He slid further up the bed, taking Gilbert with him. He kissed him again and then let himself be pushed into the pillows as the kisses became deeper and more wanting and the touches more bold.

Finally, reluctantly, Francis pulled away and reached over to tap the desk next to his bed. "In there is everything you need," he said heavily.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow and leaned over him to pull open the drawer. He let out a low whistle when he saw the contents inside.

"Oh…_Oh_. Damn."

Francis couldn't help but laugh.

"So I'm going to take a wild guess and say that this is nothing new for you either," Gilbert said.

Francis laughed again. "No, sorry to disappoint you."

"Disappointed is the last thing I am," Gilbert said as he began rifling through the drawer. "But, damn, I feel like I'm in a department store."

"You won't find any of that in a department store."

"I'm not even going to ask where you found this stuff. Hell if I know what to choose."

"Take your time," Francis said casually. He stared over the curve of Gilbert's shoulder at the blue ceiling. His heart was hammering in his chest. What would happen after this night, he could only wonder. Was is possible that things would go back to the way they once were? Gilbert just the 2nd Lieutenant and he just another person trying to find his place in the ever changing world? It seemed absurd to think that might be their fate and he found that he didn't want it to be.

"Fuck it," Gilbert said. "I'm just going to choose this." He slid the drawer closed. "You need to alphabetize that thing," he added snickering. "Or maybe not." He popped open the cap of the bottle as he settled between Francis's legs. "So does this come with instructions?"

Francis smirked. "I'm your instructions." He beckoned him to lean and he whispered what he wanted from him, what he wanted him to do to him. He guided his hands and then his body and then Gilbert was inside him and he could say nothing more as the only thing that left his mouth were muffled groans. He was terrified of being heard, even though there was no one else in the house but them, and his neighbors that still remained were all far enough away. He lasted longer this time and when he came he let out a silent cry, his nails digging into Gilbert's shoulder and back. He hoped he left marks.

For a long time afterwards they lay silent, their legs entwined, the only sound their soft breathing. Finally, Francis said he needed a cigarette and slipped out of bed. Still naked, he padded down the stairs and went into the dark kitchen to find his last box of Gauloises. When he opened the box and emptied it out onto his palm only two skinny cigarettes rolled out. That was all he had left. He took one and put the other back in the box, to save for when he most needed it. When he came back into his room he found Gilbert poking through the desk drawer again.

"See anything you like?" Francis asked as he slipped back into bed.

"A few things," Gilbert said grinning. He closed the drawer. "Is that my lighter?"

Francis glanced at the lighter in his hand and saw that it was. He had just grabbed the first one he could find off the counter.

"It would seem so," Francis said, lighting the cigarette.

"You only brought one of those?"

"Don't you have your own?"

"No on me. Got any more?"

"Sorry, this is my last one," Francis lied. "Besides, I thought you didn't like French cigarettes."

Gilbert shrugged. "If there's nothing else available, they'll do." Before Francis could say anything he took the cigarette from his lips. He ignored the heated glare he was received in response and took a deep drag. He made a face. "This shit is terrible."

Francis rolled his eyes. "You're such a brat."

Gilbert puffed on the cigarette for a few more seconds before he handed it back to Francis.

"So…what about next time?"

"You're assuming there is a next time," Francis said, hoping his voice didn't betray him.

Gilbert grinned. "After that, how couldn't there be a next time?"

"What makes you think that was anything special?"

It's was Gilbert's turn to scowl. "So you think you're funny now, huh?"

Francis grinned. "You're not the only one who knows how to be awesome." He stubbed out the cigarette on the ashtray by his bed and then rolled on top of Gilbert.

"A next time you say? I'm not completely opposed to the idea but I might need a little more convincing." He leaned down to kiss him. "Convince me."

Gilbert managed to convince him not just once but twice more that night.

"Yes, I think you've made your point," Francis muttered into Gilbert's hair after the heat had finally left them and their breathing had returned to normal. He was half-asleep and Gilbert was starting to doze off on his chest. "I have a bit of confession to make."

"What?" Gilbert yawned.

"I don't feel guilty."

"Huh? What does guilt have to do with anything?"

"Every time I've spoken to you I've felt some degree of guilt. Back in the forest it was so strong I felt like it was choking me. But now, I feel nothing. I should feel guilty, but I'm not. I think it's because I knew, in a way, that it would end up like this—you and I—no matter how much I resisted or tried to deny it. So now the question is, where do we go from here?"

They conducted their relationship with absolute secrecy.

They only ever met at Francis's house and, once there, very rarely ventured outside his bedroom, partially because of the risk of being discovered. They established a simple system of communication. When Francis was available, when he was sure that Olympe or anyone else wouldn't be around to visit, he would place a red wax candle on the kitchen windowsill. Gilbert was always there at 11, which was long past the time when any nosy neighbors would be peeping out their windows. Francis usually greeted him by asking if he wanted anything to drink and afterwards it was up to bed. Gilbert would be gone by 7 the next morning, 8 at the latest. Still half-asleep, Francis would roll out of bed, get dressed and see him safely out the back door. Once Gilbert was gone, Francis often found it difficult to go back to sleep. He wasn't required to be at work until 10 so he was forced to find something to occupy his time. He worked in his garden or cleaned up the house. Some mornings, he even went into town to see his cousin. They would have breakfast together and then he would walk her to her first job.

After her dinner at Oliver's house, Olympe now had three jobs; working at the bakery and at the post office and, twice a week, helping Oliver's mother around the house. Mrs. Vatel was 64 and had a bad hip. Oliver was often away from home, either working or meeting with friends to devise new schemes to irritate the German soldiers. Her only daughter had moved to Spain three years earlier and her husband had been dead for almost a decade, so Mrs. Vatel was left to take care of the big house by herself, even though it took her 20 minutes to get down the stairs in the morning. Despite her mixed feelings for Oliver, Olympe liked his mother well enough and had offered her services. She hadn't expected payment, but Mrs. Vatel had been adamant. So Olympe did the laundry, the sweeping, the dusting, she washed the windows and did the grocery shopping. She was spared from cooking. Mrs. Vatel was recognized as the best chef in Imaldee and never backed away from the opportunity to prove why she had held onto the title for over 20 years. Olympe received her salary once every two weeks and was kept well fed.

"Are you gaining weight?" Francis asked her after she had been working a month for Oliver's mother. They had been having dinner at his house and she threw her spoon at his head.

The days crawled by and the war continued on. Besides the food shortages, which were still only a minor inconvenience, the people of Imaldee hardly seemed to be aware of the troubles going on in the rest of the world. By September, the soldiers had become a normality. So much, that people like Olympe's friend Louise were becoming more and more common. Olympe relayed to him all the news and gossip. Marie Le Blanc was seen holding hands with a soldiers after church on Sunday. Twice divorced Mrs. Laroche often had one of them over at her house. She claimed he was helping her fix the place up but that didn't explain his presence after dark every Friday. Mr. Martin had almost been shot for attacking a soldier when he and his wife had come home and found their 16 year-old daughter curled up on the couch with one. The rumors varied on just how much clothing she had been wearing. Even as such stories grew more common and more scandalous, they didn't make Francis feel any better about what he was doing.

When they were together, he and Gilbert never discussed town gossip and rarely the war. Instead, they talked about their lives before the war and, occasionally, their families. Thankfully, Gilbert never asked about Belle.

"I grew up in Bavaria, in a town about the same size as this," Gilbert told him one evening. They were lounging in a post sex haze and smoking German cigarettes liberally. "I just about pissed my pants the first time my grandfather took me to Berlin. That's too many people in one place. We moved there when I was ten. I hated it. Six years later we moved again, this time to Dresden and we've been there ever since. I like it a whole lot better than Berlin. It's really pretty there. You would probably like it, most artsy types do."

Francis sat straight up. "What do you mean by that?" he asked quickly.

"Well you're an artist, aren't you? I saw the drawing you tossed in the trash. It wasn't half bad. Why'd you throw it away?"

It had been during his free time before work when Francis had attempted to draw again. The urge had come from nowhere and he hadn't been able to believe it when he had started sketching. But then, suddenly, the ideas had stopped and his mind had gone blank. After staring at the half finished sketch for five more minutes, Francis had angrily crumpled up the paper and thrown it away. He had forgotten about it until that moment.

"It was nothing, just something stupid." He leaned over and kissed Gilbert to keep him from asking anymore questions.

Summer turned to fall and soon winter was upon them and the year drew to a close.

"1941. Let's hope it's a better year than 1940 was," Olympe said after the clock struck midnight, turning New Year's Eve to New Year's Day. They hadn't been able to find any champagne but Oliver had gotten his hands on a small bottle of spiced rum. Francis guessed that it hadn't been acquired legally but took it anyway.

He and Olympe sat at the kitchen table, sipping their drinks and thinking of the year to come.

"I hope the war ends," Olympe said quietly, "and the soldiers go away."

"Me too," Francis said weakly. He tried not to think about Gilbert. They had gone past the point when they could have stopped. They had gotten under each other's skin and every time they saw each other, Francis felt a crushing happiness accompanied by despair. Their story would have no happy ending, he knew this, but to say goodbye was no longer a possibility. They were trapped in a doomed affair.

"Hopefully there aren't any more shortages. The bakery is already crippled as it is," Olympe continued, unaware of Francis's internal struggle.

Francis raised his glass and put his worries aside for the moment. "Here's to the end of the war and more food."

"I can drink to that."

They clinked glasses and drank to their unpredictable futures.

The year began with rumors and news smuggled in from unknown sources. Any attempt by the soldiers to discover these sources proved fruitless. Francis heard stories of war on the East African front. Mussolini was embarrassing himself and Hitler was forced to send in aide. The Americans signed some bill to send aide to Britain and China. Bombs continued to fall on London—one even landed on Buckingham Palace. The most terrifying rumors, however, were the ones about the people who went missing. Groups of people were being taken—the official term was relocated—but to where, no one was quite sure. There was something especially sinister about these rumors that sent a shiver down Francis's spine. He told Olympe he didn't want to hear any more about these "missing people".

April brought warmer weather but not better news. Food shortages had turned to food rationing and they were all given ration books. Coffee had all but vanished and sugar was soon becoming a dream of the past. Working in bakery for all those years had given Olympe a sweet tooth and the loss of sweets made her often cranky. Francis mentioned this to Gilbert one evening, hardly taking the time to consider what he was saying.

"She's definitely more snappish than usual," he said, half amused.

"I have chocolate," Gilbert replied. "Edelstein's annoying wife sent him this huge care package and it seriously had five full bars of chocolate in it. I could hardly believe it when he gave me two of them. I guess he has a heart somewhere in there, maybe. Anyway, I still have one bar left. You can share it with your cousin."

"No, I couldn't. She would ask where I got it."

"Make something up."

"I'm tired of lying to her." Suddenly Francis was annoyed. "And the last thing I need is charity from you," he snapped.

"Calm down, I was just trying to be nice. People are usually much more grateful when I offer gifts."

"Maybe you should go. I'm suddenly very tired," Francis lied.

Gilbert smirked. "I don't think so. Come here."

Francis resisted for all of five seconds before he let Gilbert pull him into his arms.

"I've got you now," Gilbert whispered in his ear.

_Yes, _Francis thought, _yes you do_.

* * *

><p>He had a question that he already knew the answer to. Yet, he wanted—needed—to ask it. For months, he tried but lacked the courage to do so whenever the opportunity to ask it arose. He tried to forget it but it persisted nonetheless. Finally, one night, it slipped out.<p>

"Are you a Nazi?"

There was a long silence. Gilbert was lying with his head on Francis's stomach. The cigarette he had been smoking hung limp in his hand; ash had already begun to accumulate at the tip.

Francis continued unsteadily. "I-I mean, I assumed you were, being a soldier and all, b-but I wasn't sure…"

Gilbert didn't answer immediately and Francis was just about to tell him to forget it, that it wasn't important, when he finally spoke up.

"You could say so."

Francis felt his heart skip a beat. Even though he had already known that that would be his answer, actually hearing him say it was something that he hadn't prepared himself for.

"I'm a member of the party," Gilbert continued slowly, "but so are a lot of people. It's…it's just something people do. You…you get connections and such. It's not as if I believe in everything they say."

Ash was beginning to trickle down onto the bed.

"Do you like him, Hitler?"

"What does it matter?"

"Just tell me. Do you believe in this war?"

"I'm fighting in it."

"That's not the same thing."

Gilbert sighed and sat up. He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray next to the bed.

"You have to understand what Germany was like before all this," he said, not turning around. "The Great War and the Treaty of Versailles brought it to its knees. Bread was millions of marks and people were starving in the streets. Hitler…is not perfect by any standard, sometimes I even think he's crazy, but he brought the country back. I don't believe in everything he says but…" he trailed off.

It didn't matter. Francis had heard everything that he needed to hear. The next morning he saw Gilbert off with a silent farewell.

They didn't speak for the next three weeks.

When they saw each other in town, Francis ignored him. If Gilbert came into the shop while he was working, Francis asked one of the new girls Babs had hired to take over the front and he retreated to the back room. Once, he found a note that had been slipped under his back door. He resisted the urge to read it and tore it up.

"You look…different," Olympe said over dinner one night. "Are you eating?"

"I'm fine," Francis lied. He was barely sleeping.

Eventually, he came to a conclusion. It was the first week in June when he put the red candle on the windowsill. When 11 rolled around and he heard the knock on the back door, he was ready.

"You sure know how to keep a guy waiting," Gilbert said when he let him inside.

Instead of taking him directly upstairs, Francis led him to the kitchen.

"I would offer you a drink—"

"It's fine, I don't want anything." Gilbert sat down at the table and put his feet up. He knew Francis hated this. "So, what do you want from me? Do you want me to apologize? To say that I hate Hitler and I think that this whole war is fucked up and a joke? Is that what you want Francis?" He stood up and began pacing around the kitchen. "Maybe…maybe I should just quit the army and join up with the French resistance. Would that make you happy? Come on, tell me!" There was pain and anger etched on his face when he turned to face Francis. "You knew, you fucking knew, who I was before all of this started. And then, out of fucking nowhere, you go and ask me that question and suddenly it's like I'm something…_evil_. What the fuck? I…I won't take any of it back. I love my country, got it? I would die for it and I don't care who the fuck is in charge as long as what they do, they do for Germany, okay? If that makes me a horrible person in your eyes tell me now and I'll leave and you'll never have to speak to me again."

"I don't want you to leave," Francis said. "And I don't want anything from you. True, I was angry before but not anymore."

He walked up to Gilbert until they were face to face.

"I won't ask you to choose because if someone asked me to do the same I don't think I could either. I love my country too and, as for you…" he smirked. "I'm not ready to let you go just yet. Forgive me, I acted irrationally."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "_You're_ actually apologizing?"

"Don't make me regret it."

"I don't plan to. In that case, what now?" Gilbert asked.

"Now? Now you kiss me, take me upstairs and we'll see if we can make up what we've missed these past weeks."

They didn't make it upstairs and ended up on the floor of the sitting room. Normally, Francis would never have taken such a risk but his ability to think rationally that left him earlier that night. Yet, he knew, as Gilbert trailed a line of wet kisses down his body, that a day would come when he would be forced to make a choice: his country or his lover? He only hoped that by then he would be strong enough to make the right decision.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Please forgive me for any typos/grammar mistakes. I read over the chapter but was in a hurry when I posted this so I probably missed a few things. I'll fix everything later :)

I've already started on the next part but I have other fics that I need to update and then there's school and such...ugh. So, to be on the safe side, don't expect another update for awhile. I'm sorry, I'll do my best not to keep you waiting too long :(

-with love

dancer


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